To Fall... To Be...

The months between October and January held an organic plan for themselves.The rhythm of the holidays carried me one event at a time. I didn’t need to generate one. All I had to do was follow the prescribed social agenda. It was distracting enough to make it look like I could function.  

 In constant contact with the kids, Ase, Zany, and KJ were all sorting through the same shattered pieces as I was. The four of us held an open space as we navigated the shards gently. We relabeled some holidays and let other ones rest for a while. It was lovely to collectively agree to simply rest and heal.

As for KJ being home from college, she and I held an arrangement that we understood what was going on. Other people didn’t need to agree or know. This was her life and her decision. I respected her ability to stand up to me and tell me what she needed. I wish I had her strength at 19. To stop and figure herself out on her terms. 

My Dear Friend held space for me in the months of August to October when I was scrambling for some sanity to hold onto. They simply needed a space to heal. When they were asked for a medical plan, I was invited to be a part of their process. All they needed was a place to stay. It was incredibly healing to be a Human Being in my Dear Friend’s life instead of a Human Doing. They sorted themselves out, found the help they needed and worked through the issue. 

The holidays passed and January came. Only one personal holiday left, the four of us renamed it. The month was a quiet hurdle. January typically is a Fibro Flare month anyway. I quit talking to everyone. I simply didn’t have any words. I am grateful for the people who consistently called and showed up. Some helped to paint kitchen cabinets. Others sat and sipped tea while we built jigsaw puzzles. The regular dinner theme night kept my food on track.  Leaving the house was still overstimulating. The random text or call shed a beam of light here or there. It was enough to keep me moving forward.  

I had to let go. 

I had to stop trying.

I had to no longer Live In Spite Of…

I wasn’t strong. I was very, very weak. I needed to rest in a quiet place and heal. I needed to feel safe. I had to learn how to hear my own voice. After 51 years of taking care of everyone else, I had to discover how to take care of myself. It was time to admit that I had nothing to give anyone else. 

 I was a Human Being

I was not a Human Doing.

I didn’t know what that looked like. The only way to discover it was simply

To Be…

I Fell Down

A year ago, I had a plan. 

KJ (aka Girly) was to leave for college. I would spend the first half of the year researching tutoring companies and after school programs. I had a few options for library positions in local schools. My plan was to look into online opportunities and finish my undergrad, hopefully get my certificate as an interpreter for the deaf.  I was going to explore what my art capabilities were, develop an art history/art curriculum and find a way to market, then sell it. 

That was the plan I worked towards for two years while KJ finished high school. I built up my resume building through volunteer work in a local school classroom and theatre projects. I made appointments with the local colleges to see what was necessary to become an interpreter. It was a slow process, between Fibro flare-ups and week long Migraines. I was proud of the slow, but steady progress I was making. 

You see, every moment of my life since December 1, 1987 has been on purpose. I lived “In Spite of…” what happened in my life. I was told I was strong. I needed to get my shiznit together. Keep going. They told me I was a survivor. They said I was inspiring. I heard I was to be admired. I was challenged that I couldn’t give up. They chided me with, I shouldn’t be a martyr. 

“Don’t play the victim.”

“Don’t be codependent.”

“Don’t ask for help.”

“You’re fine.”

“Quit complaining.”

“Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill.”

“Be brave. You’re strong!” (oh, right… I said that one).  

AND wash, rinse, repeat. 

Then Life happened.

Last year I felt, yet again, forced into another person’s narrative. 

I felt pushed out of an airplane without a parachute. 

I asked for help like I was supposed to. I stayed strong like I was supposed to. I held my shiznit together as best I could. I kept checking off each goal box at a time.

Get KJ to school

Get home.

Start over.

All the helpful advice focused on one basic sentiment: “Now you get to do what you always wanted.”

Problem was, I had what I always wanted. I now needed to invent something I never imagined for myself: Alone.

I kept up appearances adequately. Checked all the “you should” boxes. Until...

In September, KJ told me she needed to come home from college.

In late October, a dear friend of mine had a medical emergency that checked all my Senior Year death boxes.

The holidays loomed.

Everything began to crumble. 

I had no plan for when life turned to sand and disintegrated in my hands. I did have a choice. I could either drive myself insane making it stick together…

OR…

Let it run through my fingers.

It was terrifying beyond all imagination. What would everyone think of me? Who would stay by me? What would happen if I was alone in all of it? One fact I knew about myself.  No longer could I be strong. I had no shiznit to hold together anymore. I had no idea if I could survive this, actually I knew I wouldn’t. I knew that I had to let go of all those shattered pieces of myself I held together since December 1, 1987. 

It was time to let it all fall apart. 

I had no plan for the first time in my life. I understood that not everyone who was in my life at the time would be able to walk with me down the dark road before me. It was alright. It was a darkness I avoided for far too long. I could not pretend anymore.

It was time I faced it and healed correctly.

An Era of Threads Part 6

On January 16th, Grandma Edna passed away. According to Dad, over the last few weeks she communicated her readiness to go Home. Without much fanfare her soul left this mortal coil in the middle of January. At peace with those close to her. Dad said it was beautiful.

I went to the funeral.

It was the end of an era.

A season of family and fallout. Wounds and healings. A permanent parting of ways for the two branches of this family.

The sky was a thick gray as I stood on the outskirts of the grave side ceremony. The tule fog simply waiting to be unfurled and blanket the little town once the sun set.  I watched her family and friends laugh, wipe tears and shared knowing looks. Grandma was a woman well loved by those around her and I was glad. I felt for my Dad who shared stories and scripture verses. Caught between a family that was and a family that is cannot be easy for him. Grief is just different in that situation.

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The service ended and I walked to the quiet end of her casket. I thanked her for the example of strength-the way she defended her own ethic without compromise. I admired how she could communicate what she thought of people. I loved how she liked everyone she met, then decided whether to dislike them later. Her sense of style was impeccable. With a steely grace she would walk into a room. Her daily crossword puzzles and Yahtzee kept her mind sharp until the end.  I honored her as my Grandmother. 

Then I said goodbye for the last time.

Turning around I met Aunt2 and Uncle2. They live out of state now. With a warm hug we caught up on their new life. The task at hand and the gloomy cold that is Central Valley fog.

Then I set my gaze to the other side of Grandma’s casket. The family she loved deeply stood together. It would be the last time I would ever see them. I walked over and waited for conversations to ebb. Uncle looked at me with no hint of recognition. I reminded him of who I was and in surprise he said hello. It was good to see him again. I gave him a quick hug and he turned to address those standing behind me.

Aunt was next. My heart brimming with love for her, I hugged her. We looked into each other’s eyes for a moment and I said,

“Sorry for your loss.”

Her soft reply was, “Sorry for yours.”

My heart broke for Aunt. Grandma was her best friend. They had a very close Mother/Daughter relationship. I waited for the right words, “But you two had something special.”

Aunt’s eyes welled up. Her arms reached and I melted into them. For a moment I was a little unscathed girl being held by an aunt who loved deeply. We savored that moment then parted.

“Goodbye.” I simply said. She nodded.

The quiet ride home I watched groves of orange trees blur for acres. My eye followed the power line as it seamlessly flowed alongside the road. Never again would I have to travel there again. I could leave the pain and take the lessons with me. Let the bad leave its’ scar and walk forward in strength.

It was finished. 

An Era of Threads Part 5

Grandma Edna married again. In a new house with a new husband she thrived. A wedding reception at her house contained everyone. All within a safe distance of each other. After she again voiced displeasure to Dad about the boundary that existed.

She wanted her family around her on her terms.

Months later she turned her plea to a Sister. During her usual brag about Aunt and Uncle’s accomplishments. Her pride in their kids overflowed. She turned to Sister3 and asked again:

“Why can’t you just get over it?”

Upon hearing that, my resolve was set. I would not go up to visit her. I could not trust myself if Grandma ever asked me that question. My response would not be an honoring one. Grandma taught me well of independence and fierceness.

After a few years on their own, it was time for Grandma Edna and her husband to move into an Assisted Living situation. It worked for them well. Game nights, dining halls, and constantly surrounded by people to talk to made her happy. Still the person in the middle of a party.

Dad helped in her process of downsizing. He asked if I would like to go. After much thought I went. It was time not only to forgive, but reclaim a bit of myself. To move beyond the fear and begin to bravely exist.

We spent the day with her. My mind ready for the uncomfortable topic. I prayed for grace in my answers. Grandma Edna gave me the usual updates about Uncle, Aunt, Cousins and their kids. Accomplishments and accolades liberally described. I, my usual quiet self, listened. The anxiety ever present about the situation, I felt at peace with her. My heart resolved that this would be our Goodbye. It was a good day.

The curve all came when Grandma Edna then suggested go to Uncle and Aunt’s house to collect things meant for my sisters and their kids. 

My heart braced.

I began to think about it.

Not only did I come to her town and know that I existed in peace. Not only did I need to have a day where our strength met dignity and respect.

 I needed to allow my brain to heal as well.

 I sat in Uncle’s house still on the outside while my PTSD rattled brain ran through scenarios.   My breath measured but shallow. The knot in the pit of stomach settled. I listened as Uncle and Aunt talked about life and their transitions. Dad shared a few stories and laughter happened. I talked about my kids a bit. While I carefully controlled my exterior, my interior continued its’ inventory.

Uncle wasn’t a very big man.

Aunt looked just like Grandma.

I was an adult just like them.

Then a blanket of security wrapped around my heart. He will never be able to hurt me again. I am safe. I can leave all of the memories, feelings and hurt right there on the couch. It didn’t need to come home with me. I had permission to be done with all.

My thoughts calmed. The ball in my stomach relaxed. I was able to breathe deep.

The drive home with Dad was pleasant. We discussed the miracles of the day. What our family was like before the Big Thing. How much we laughed then. I told him about my boundaries. I felt at peace with all of them. It would be my last trip there. My gratitude expressed, we spoke our goodnights as he dropped me off.

An Era of Threads Part 4

As the case against Uncle dragged on, laws changed within the molestation epidemic. By the time it came to trial, the cousins’ and my testimony was no longer admissible. Statute of limitations had passed. Two Sisters would face the trial. The case continued to drag until the last moment when Uncle plead No Contest. His sentence was Community Service.

Legalities settled, Grandma Edna renewed her vigilant pressure of bringing the family together. Birthdays. Holidays. Anniversaries. All of us in different places of healing.

I found myself not caring about what she thought. Her discomfort did not bother me.

This resolve was something I learned from her.

What I did dread however were the funerals. Only three important ones remained. My Great-Grandmother.

Grandpa Johnny

And Grandma Edna’s.

Each I would need to attend and pay my last respects. Honor their lives and support my Dad as he grieved the loss.

Great-Grandmother went first. She was an immigrant from Switzerland. I spent a few nights with her when I was little. Within her was a sweet resolve. A similar fierceness to Grandma Edna, but a gentleness and grace. I greatly admired that quiet dignity. With only a few years of, I attended her service and wake. It was the first time I had seen Uncle. I felt a little sick, but not falling apart. He stayed on one side of the room and we the other.

By the time Grandpa Johnny passed away, I understood a little about forgiveness. Giving up my right to get even, be vindicated or even see justice was a start. The longer I wished him ill. I understood the verse, “Vengeance is mine, says the LORD.”

It was God’s job to judge. I don’t know what wounds Uncle carried which influenced his choices. Who knows, maybe Uncle simply paid forward a violation he received.

I needed to stop being afraid.

I needed to get out of God’s way as judge.

For my own healing, I needed to forgive

So, at Grandpa Johnny’s graveside, I approached Uncle.

With shaking hands and a trembling heart, I looked into his eyes. I said, “I forgive you.” Then hugged him. A peace flooded my soul. The words, “It is finished” breathed within me. Then I walked away.

Forgiveness doesn’t mean a Do Over. It doesn’t mean access to my life. It simply means I accept the same God that judges me, will judge him. The same sun that warms me, warms him. The same air I breathe, he breathes.

That’s all.

An Era of Threads Part 3

When I started high school, something changed within me. I so subtle it couldn’t be defined, but at the core was a fierceness. My Parents announced they needed a trip away. I asked if we could stay home. They hesitated and that subtle fierceness grew.  I was babysitting the sisters on a regular basis. I knew how to cook, clean and keep a schedule. Dad’s brother, Uncle2 and Aunt2 lived five minutes away. If something happened, they were only a phone call away.

I was 14.

I considered myself responsible.

And it whispered to me, “Keep Sisters away from them.”

It bothered me that the voice made no sense. Grandparents, Aunt and Uncle were kind. They loved us…But… I lobbied that logic with my feelings.

Feelings said we weren’t safe. Feelings said to protect Sisters.

Feelings won and never again did we spend a weekend with Them.

Then my Senior year.

A string of suicides.

An extra credit paper for Sociology opened a rabbit hole that rivaled Pandora’s Box.

The flood of memories explained why I became so fiercely protective of Sisters. Uncle had been a little too friendly. Compelled to do the “right thing,” I sat my Parents down and told them what I remembered. It was 1986 and Incest was the hot topic. Parents sat Sisters down and asked them the questions.

I had failed.

Uncle acquainted himself with two Sisters, the Third and youngest of us was unscathed. Dad approached Uncle2 and informed him of what was going on. Uncle2 already knew about it. Their family dealt with it years before.

Dad and Mom were left with a decision. Cousins and I sat down to discuss what the options were. We voted to report it and let the law take its’ course. Dad made the arrangements. We all made our reports to the Sheriff.

Then Dad had to sit down with Grandma Edna and explain what was going on. Why our family along with Uncle and Aunt2’s family would not be attending Holiday gatherings.

Grandma Edna didn’t take it well.

Her system of things was violated. This was her family and she needed them around her. Stuff like this happened all the time. She explained to Dad that growing up Uncle Blah and Uncle Pfft did such and such to girl cousins. It was just what our family did. What’s the big deal?

She then said to my Dad, “Well… why can’t you guys just get over it so we can get together as a family. I was raped at 14 and I got over it.”

An Era of Threads Part 2

My admiration of Edna grew as I got older.  Any time Edna included me in was an adventure an uncomfortable feeling was always present. When the aerobics craze exploded in the 80s, she committed completely. With the legs of Tina Turner, Edna would walk into a conversation. Then tell everyone how great going to the gym was and they needed to go too.

Her car was a beige Buick. When Edna pushed the gas pedal you could hear fuel pouring into the engine by the gallon. Often if a driver offended her, the window would be rolled down. Her fist shook out with a string of obscenities following behind it. Edna could never understand why someone would get in her way.

As former produce ranchers, Grandma Edna and Grandpa Johnny employed migrant workers during harvest seasons. They believed their workers were treated well and fairly. However, when Caesar Chavez began to unionize the labor force. They felt betrayed. Many a holiday table was filled with this topic. The turning point for them was during the grape boycott. 

My Grandmother with great pride told the story over a dry turkey. Driving by a market In her gas guzzling Buick , she saw protesters out front.

She turned a tight corner.

Parked.

Stormed into the store.

Purchased a bag of grapes.

Then strolled through the protesters, slowly eating the grapes in front of them.

I thought Grandma Edna was fierce.

Even though I didn't agree with her-and THAT car ride home was filled with my parents discussing how wrong that was. I admired her fearlessness. The way she could walk through life, not carrying about what people thought. It didn’t matter if it wasn’t popular. It was the way Edna thought things should be, so the world just better keep up.

I wanted to be as strong.

Parents tried to protect us from Grandma Edna and Grandpa Johnny’s opinions. We never heard all of them, but I heard enough to understand what prejudice and bigotry was. The hour ride home after a gathering at their house was filled with conversation about people. How we shouldn’t judge people by the color of their skin, but by their character. That Grandma Edna could have her opinions but to keep the secret that those opinions were wrong.

When we stayed for the weekend while Parents were away, it was quiet. If I spoke to Grandma Edna, my words were weighed carefully. Conversation was weighed and measured within my mind. It was always careful.

The rhythm went like this: one night with the Grandparents. One night with the Aunt and Uncle. Aunt had a bubbly laugh and made me feel sparkly and special. Uncle was friendly and busy. The houses were like dark and light. Careful and carefree.

Then something mysterious happened.

An Era of Threads Part 1

Edna, the oldest of five children, grew up through the Great Depression. Her belief as the eldest was to keep everything running. It was her job to help raise he siblings. As a young adult in movie theater, during a news reel saw a friend die while storming the beach at Normandy. Did her part to support the cause of World War II.

Edna married Johnny and they had three kids. When Johnny’s Step Mother asked him to help run an Orange and Olive ranch, the family moved. All three kids have stories to tell about squirrel shooting, burning tires on frosty nights to save the oranges and working together.

Photo by Sgarton 

When Edna and Johnny retired, they moved back to the Central Valley small town. Edna went to work at a doctor’s office. Johnny worked in an appliance store. If there was something in their community to be involved in, Edna was there. Somehow she held command of a room filled with people.

I met Edna in the late 1970s. We moved from Utah to California. My Dad, fresh from the military, looked diligently for employment. My Mom early in pregnancy, a little sister who was three and I in third grade lived together in the spare room. It was an adjustment for all of us. She and my Grandpa Johnny had strong opinions about everything. Often exchanged views in the kitchen. Edna made it very clear to me what rooms I was allowed into and where I was not. What could be touched and what was to be left alone.

Both of my parents were visibly uncomfortable when they left for their weekly card games and bowling league. Often they smelled strangely when they came home. Parents reluctantly explained to me about cigarettes and alcohol.

As much as Grandma Edna and Grandpa Johnny scared me, I was also intrigued by them. In the quiet my parents discussed their need for salvation, but we all attended church together. I liked their pastor. The Congregational Church seemed to have air within its walls, music and we could all sit together.  Children were welcome in service. After a time of worship, the pastor would call all the kids up for a story. Then we would run to our classes. It felt like an honest, whole body.

The Aunt and Uncle who lived in town seemed nice. Aunt was Grandma Edna’s daughter. Their relationship seemed filled with love and laughter. Aunt and Uncle had two teenage kids. Grandma Edna and Grandpa Johnny doted on them.

My Dad found a job and we moved into a neighboring town. Sister Three was born, Sister Two toddled around and I landed into my Third school of the year.  Three schools in Third Grade is a story for another time. Two years later Sister Four entered the world

Once in our own rhythm, the visits with Grandma Edna and Grandpa Johnny were limited to holidays and an occasional weekend when Parents needed to go out of town. The relationship, however, never changed. It was cordial always but what Grandma said went. No one disagreed with her. We watched golf and played Yatzee for fun. Otherwise we were expected to be quiet and play with our own toys.

The Nagging Why

Why?

After any kind of tragedy, personal or within the community that is the first question asked. Why so young. Why so many. Why didn't God intervene? Why not a miracle?

WHY?

I spent many years asking this question. Crying out to God. Talking to therapists and mentors. Journaling until my pen ran dry. Each time disappointment added to the pain in my heart. There was no answer that made the pain go away. Never would an answer bring back what was lost. No answer would heal a relationship.

I do not regret that season of Why because it taught me about grieving. In our culture, we don’t allow much time for it. We are expected to get on with it. Often the “encouragement” is to let it go and move on. Traumatic losses are not switches that can be flipped off and on. It isn't simply indigestion of the soul that a burp can relieve. It is a deep cut that needs tending. Ignored it festers into bitterness, resentment and anger. With the proper tending the healing process will be long and leave its mark, but in the end love, joy and health will return.

Part of the healing is a season in the land of Why. It is important because it gets us talking: to God, to others, and ourselves. Sometimes the answers fall flat, others are a soothing salve, but the answers never solve the problem. It is when I came to accept this that the next stage of my healing began.

How?

How am I going to get through today? How can I share the grace and love I have received in this season of grieving with others? How can I get to know God better?

After suicides, flashbacks, misunderstandings and constant change, How is my focus. It doesn't make it easier, but life is smoother. Whenever my mind visits the Land of Why, I remind myself to focus on the How. There are no answers for me in Why any longer. My energies are better focused in the present moment. How doesn't erase what happened, but it turns it into something to grow from. The scars from the past will never disappear. They aren't meant to. They are part of my character.

In Rick Riordan’s book, The Red Pyramid, Bast-the cat goddess- is asked to heal a battered old tom cat. Bast replies;

 “And take away his marks of honor? A cat’s battle scars are part of his identity.”

Thanks to those few words, I learned that everything I experience makes its mark. Some beautiful others unsightly, but all together my life is lived. My story is told to hopefully encourage and inspire others. 

Walk with Dogs: The Story of a Dog

He was a Christmas puppy, kept secret at a sister’s house until Santa could place him under their tree.

They lived in a house that The Counting Mutant grew up in. The Mutant’s Father had two boys. His Mother had two boys. They got married and had him. All told, five boys. This family of boys moved into a newish house of three bedrooms. It did not take long before the Father decided to make the house fit his family. Plans drawn, boys helped and grew up in that house. At the neighborhood swimming pool, life long friendships were forged. Four older brothers grew up and left the nest.

That left a Dad, a Mom and a boy.

Not needing a house to fit five boys, the parents decided to move into a house that fit their family. The house was sold to another family.

That family grew up in that molded house. Those Parents moved and one Son stayed to fill it with his own family. This man’s wife was my sister’s friend.

That Christmas puppy was a Dachshund. Not a toy, or a mini, but a Standard sized Dachshund. His natural instincts were strong. Bred to hunt badgers in their den, the breed is tenacious, intelligent, sensitive and funny.

This puppy lived in a house a Father built. That The Counting Mutant spent his childhood in.

All of his natural behaviors-living in a house in a family filled with toddlers-became too much to handle. The family asked my sister if she would like him. She said yes. This Dachshund puppy, now a year old dog, joined two Australian Shepherds. This adventurous pack of three romped, went on long walks. The Shepherds would return to the call of their master like good herding dogs. The Dachshund focused on the hunt and not hearing his master’s call, would track his prey until found, then wait. The Dachshund would jump on beds and snuggle little ones, guarding their dreams.

And in another house filled with toddlers, the Dachshund didn’t fit. He didn’t take correction well. Was hard to control on long walks and struggled with house training. It was time for him to find a new home.

We had just said goodbye to a Labrador we fostered for a few years while another sister was in the armed forces. Our quiet house missed a snuggle buddy. We happily accepted this quirky Dachshund and called him Roscoe.

This Dachshund who spent puppy years in a house The Counting Mutant grew up in. They were soul mates.

Built like a mini Schwarzenegger, Roscoe would bounce up and down the stairs. Leap the recliner in a single bound. Happily snuggle with a book reader. He loved to sing “Happy Birthday.” The daily mile or two walk was the highpoint of his day. Older kids in our house made the house training issues a simple fix.

 All of this jumping had a price. Dachshunds are prone to back problems because they are structured as a regularly sized dog on itty bitty legs. Chiropractic added two years to his life. At age 11 it was a hernia that pushed him over the edge.

Head sagging, and asking to go home, Roscoe’s walk became his chore instead of a joy. Sleeping more and playing less became his routine. Last night for a final Happy Birthday chorus we learned he couldn't even do that. On the first note, his song became howls of pain and we all knew: it was time to say goodbye. Keeping him would be selfish.

This morning we said goodbye to our friend. The Counting Mutant said goodbye to a common history and memory. We are relieved he is at peace and bouncing somewhere in wild, open fields. Hunting to his heart’s content and pleasing his Master.

Laughter At A Funeral

My brother in law died in April 2009. 

Tensions were high that morning as we prepared for the day filled with overwhelming emotion and numb brains. The Counting Mutant was the designated speaker of the eulogy. His brother had committed suicide. People filed into the small funeral chapel. Family seated together in the front rows all with tears creeping down, their faces filled with confusion.

Two decades before I sat in this very funeral home. In high school, a friends’ sister was killed in a boating accident. She was barely a teen. Not long after we again met to bury their mother killed in an automobile accident. Those memories invaded my mind as I sat next to my sweet Mutant. His stoic nature created a calm demeanor. I knew he was struggling though, deep within his introverted self. The last natural son of his father, the duty to speak had fallen to him.

Music started to play. The collective hearts in the room began to sink. On queue, the Mutant walked up to the podium. I braced myself. He shakily began his carefully crafted speech.

He was so brave. His voice quivered just a little, his gaze connecting to each person in the room as he spoke those first few sentences.

Then…

To my horror that sweet man drop his face and gazed at the podium. One of his hands flew up to cover his eyes as he shook his head. My friends grabbed my hands in comfort as we watched him shutter a little. I heard everyone supportively hold their breath as we waited for him to gather himself. After a few moments he lifted his face. With a changed expression on his face the eulogy was eloquently finished. Something happened in that moment to lighten his burden. I wasn't sure if it was resolve or…

The day was bittersweet. Tables decorated with flowers and butterflies lined our backyard. Ducks glided along the water of the lake. Hugs, Friends and family who hadn't seen each other in years softly laughed about my Brother In Law’s antics. His life was our focus. It didn't matter how he died.

Hours later The Mutant and I sat completely drained. For the first time in days we were alone. The task of the funeral completed. Sunset colored the lake in ethereal golds and reds. In the stillness we sat together outside at the empty tables littered with bits of dirty dishes yet to be cleared away.

A flicker of his hand covered face jogged my memory. I cautiously put my hand on his arm. Our hazel eyes met and I asked, "What happened during the eulogy?"

Frown lines melted and laughter filled his eyes, "As usual," he began laughing,” Just as I began to speak your parents walked through the door. Stood looking confused then quickly found a seat. I had to stop talking because I was laughing so hard. They will be late to their own funeral."